


O holy night

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: It's nearing the first Christmas since the failed Apocalypse, and Crowley was hoping that he would be spending it in Aziraphale's arms. Unfortunately, Crowley is starting to lose hope that Aziraphale is at all interested. So he deals with his feelings the same way anyone holding an all-consuming love for an ethereal being would: by taking him to dinner.Written for the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 335
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	O holy night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coshie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coshie/gifts).



> This is a gift for coshie ([effable-ineffability](https://effable-ineffability.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr) for the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019. They mentioned that they like fluff, and A/C "firsts" like first kisses especially if there's a ton of pining thrown in. And then I made it Christmas themed for good measure. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> My eternal thanks to [asideofourown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asideofourown) for beta reading!

Crowley tightens and flexes his grip on the Bentley's steering wheel, face lit up in brake-light red. A few horns pierce through the cheesy Christmas music blaring outside (another one of his demonic inventions that seems to have blown up in his face), and he has to reel in the urge to curse every single motorist within a mile radius. He really should have walked to Aziraphale's, but he just couldn't resist stopping by that bakery he loves, the one up in Stratford. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, he’s paying for it now, penned in by traffic on a congested Oxford Street, patience acutely pushed to its limits.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, the same frantic beat of his annoyingly human heart. He's going to be late, after all the fuss he went through to get that dinner reservation at The Shard (and not with a miracle, he did it like a normal British human and waited in a queue until a spot opened up). The car in front rolls forward a few inches, and he grits his teeth.

Of course, this is nothing compared to the last few millennia of waiting. Crowley could do London stand-still traffic on his head after the agonising, scream-into-a-pillow, pull-your-wings-off torment of longing over Aziraphale. And he deals with his feelings the same way anyone holding an all-consuming love for an ethereal being would: by taking him to dinner. It has been his one outlet to pour all his molten affection into for centuries now, a way to love Aziraphale without raising too many questions.

And now all of Greater Damned London seems to be conspiring against him.

He glances over at the box of pastries on the passenger seat, dark blotches bleeding out across the pink cardboard like spilled ink, as something wet (the passionfruit creme, perhaps?) seeps through. It splinters some of his resolve, and Crowley punches the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

"Right, bollocks to this."

He weaves the Bentley through a gap it definitely should not have been able to fit through, and floors it to 90.

Once he's pulled up to the bookshop, car flung at a wonky angle along the curb out front, he bursts through the door like a hurricane with the box from the bakery under his arm. Aziraphale is just standing there in the middle of the shop floor, hands clasped in front of him, features trained into a mask of angelic serenity. But his eyes are steel grey.

"You ready to go?" Crowley asks, inexplicably out of breath.

"Well, seeing as you told me to be ready for 6 on the dot, and it's now…" Aziraphale takes his time to peer over at the wall clock above the front door. "Eighteen-past-six - yes. I'm ready to go."

"Oh, alright, traffic was bad," Crowley says, more annoyed at how difficult it is to focus on being tetchy when he's staring at those pink lips.

"And since when are you beholden to the laws of traffic?"

"I thought we'd agreed to be more... economical with the miracles until we had a better idea about our safety."

Aziraphale's expression softens, and Crowley needs to move the conversation on before he's discorporated by an aneurysm at the sight of that slight pout.

"Here, brought this."

He holds out the paltry offering of baked goods, and Aziraphale's face immediately lights up like he's handed him the moon and stars, and not a soggy box of pastries.

"Oh, my dear, you didn't need to go through the trouble. Aren’t we going out to eat?”

"Well, yeah, but I thought afterwards we could spend the rest of the night here."

The words tumble out of his idiot mouth before he can stop them. Someone help him, why did he word it like that? He watches Aziraphale's face, waiting for him to look shocked, or terrified, or any number of horrified reactions that would shred Crowley's heart.

But he just sets the box down between some first editions of twentieth century paperbacks and gives him a gentle smile. It shreds Crowley's heart all the same.

"Of course, that sounds lovely. But I think we'd best get a wiggle on before we lose our reservation."

Crowley groans and rolls his eyes at the phrase, and Aziraphale - the bastard - throws him a self-satisfied little grin as they step outside.

The drive to Southwark goes far more smoothly, mostly because this time Crowley takes a chance and spares a few miracles to clear the roads. They fly along Regent Street, all lit up with Christmas decorations - strings of fairy lights twisted into the shapes of stars and candles and snowflakes. They twinkle a bluish-white colour, catching Aziraphale's curls and turning his hair to moonlight.

Crowley bites his tongue to stop himself from sighing. He had vowed to take things slowly with Aziraphale, if that was really what was needed. And he could do that, could slow down enough that even bloody snails would look over their shoulders (do snails even have shoulders?) as they sped past him.

But then, the world didn't end.

And he'd waited, because he'd sooner pluck the feathers from his wings one by one than push Aziraphale too hard and too soon. He'd held out a flimsy hope that the first Christmas on Their Own Side might be spent, well, together. Obviously they always spend it together - that's the thing about being the only two immortal beings on a planet full of stuff that grows old and dies, not really many opportunities for outside friends. But _together_ , in that naff, cheesy human sense, where they could spend the day huddled under a blanket on the sofa, warming up with glasses of Port, and kisses under mistletoe, smiling lovingly into each other's eyes like they're in some fucking John Lewis advert.

But it's halfway through December now, and hope was starting to give way to a sort of desperate sorrow that nothing was ever going to happen.

He pushes those thoughts aside, sweeps them under the rug - the one all lumpy with thousands of years worth of thoughts he shouldn't be having - and finds somewhere to park not far from London Bridge. Nearby, The Shard is a slice of obsidian cutting the purple night sky. They float along a side street, like the mist curling in off the Thames.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Aziraphale says next to him, and Crowley would book out the entire restaurant forever just to see the stars light up behind his eyes like that again.

"Doesn't take much to impress you, does it?"

"Suppose that's why I enjoy your company, then."

"Ah, but you admit you enjoy it," he replies, leaning in to grin like a Cheshire cat. He catches the scent of sandalwood and bergamot, and it makes his heart crash into his ribcage.

"Glad you got that figured that out after six thousand years."

“I was bound to catch on sooner or later.”

Aziraphale hums cheerfully in agreement as the swanky front doors of The Shard invite them in from the cold. 

The restaurant is a sleek affair of glass and steel, all the sharp edges cutting especially harsh against Aziraphale's beige and powder-blue curves, like a bramble bush tangling around a feather. And then he beams at the panoramic view of London, and the whole place seems to soften, like not even the damn building can resist his blithe charm.

"Isn't that breathtaking, Crowley?" he says.

"S'alright," Crowley replies with a playful shrug before he can say something along the lines of _just like you_ or some other equally sappy bollocks.

They're shown to their table, one by a window overlooking Tower Bridge (that bit required a little old fashioned Temptation, though he'll never tell), and Crowley orders a bottle of Aziraphale's favourite Pinot Noir.

They opt for the four courses of the chef's tasting menu, and Crowley settles in to watch Aziraphale from across the table, like he's staring patiently at the sky waiting for a meteor shower. And once the angel takes a forkful of foie gras to his mouth, that first falling star streaking into view, Crowley can barely tear his eyes away. He commits everything to memory: the delighted scrunch of his nose, the alluring bob of his throat as he swallows, the frankly erotic sighs of pleasure at each mouthful that set Crowley on fire (and isn't _that_ just pathetic). 

When Aziraphale finishes the last bite of his poached pear, he sets his fork down with a gentle clatter against his plate.

"That was absolutely scrumptious. Makes me wonder why we never tried eating here sooner."

Crowley lazily swirls his wine glass around, watching the dark liquid slosh from side to side.

"Oh, I dunno. S'pose we've just got our old favourites. The Ritz, The Savoy…"

"That's true," Aziraphale says quietly. "But it's never too late for a change, is it?"

Crowley turns his head to look at the glittering city laid out before them. London is crushed velvet studded with gold and copper, the black ribbon of the Thames looping around the shining jewels of Canary Wharf in the distance. Beads of red and white string together through the streets, dragged across Tower Bridge at a steady pace. Human lives playing out while they watch from above, time moving unrelentingly forward…

"Crowley?"

Crowley whips his head back to Aziraphale. He's leaning over the table, propped up on his elbows, with a smile that is so achingly tender Crowley feels it like a bright hot poker in his heart. He quickly downs the rest of his wine.

"Yeah, sure, we'll come back here again if you liked it that much, angel."

Aziraphale flinches microscopically, a slight twitch that would be lost to anyone but a demon who has spent the last few centuries studying his every little nuance and mannerism.

"Yes, excellent - marvelous," he says, pulling himself back like a hermit crab retreating into its shell, and Crowley can't help but feel he's done something wrong.

When they wander back out onto the street the air is sharp and crisp, like a knife blade down Crowley's throat. Aziraphale begins drifting toward the spot where they parked the car, so Crowley (apparently a big fan of prolonging his suffering) says, "Why don't we walk back?"

The angel's brow creases together in that infuriatingly endearing way.

"Might be nice to walk along Southbank at this time of night,” Crowley continues. “With all the lights and whatnot."

"What about the Bentley?" Aziraphale asks.

"Ah, she knows the way home," he says with a casual wave.

Aziraphale chuckles, apparently content to trust the Bentley's homing instincts, and they begin walking side by side along the river.

The promenade is bustling with Christmas shoppers and people off to holiday office parties. Crowley can hear a brass band somewhere up ahead playing carols, the metallic notes of trumpets and French horns resonating proudly on the cold night air.

"You were certainly right about the lights, dear boy," Aziraphale says, smiling up at the strings of gold laced between lamp posts.

"O, ye of little faith," Crowley says. "When have I ever steered you wrong, eh?"

A single peal of laughter rings out of Aziraphale.

"How long have we got?"

" _Ngk_. Alright, walked into that one, didn't I?"

"Because there are about eight different instances that come to mind straight away - hm, no, nine now."

"Oh, sod off."

They wander into a Christmas market as they near Waterloo Bridge, and it's all bright lights and laughter and little wooden stalls lined up along the Thames. But nothing shines brighter than the angel next to him.

"Doesn't that smell wonderful?" Aziraphale says, staring at one of the stalls. "Let's go get some mulled wine."

Crowley makes a big show of caving in, but there was never any way he was going to say no to those twinkling eyes. Still, can't just let his heart go baring everything to the world, now can he.

It’s a bit of a jostle through a sea of shoulders, but Aziraphale manages to get to the front of the stall and order two cups of mulled wine and a mince pie (Crowley’s never been fond of the things himself). The angel offers out one of the steaming paper cups, and Crowley wraps his spindly fingers around its warmth. He takes a sip, and the scent of bright citrus mingling with the woody spices and the tannins of the wine makes him think so painfully of Aziraphale, of how desperately he wants to wrap himself around his soft body and sink into the warm skin at the base of his neck, that it turns the whole thing bitter in his mouth.

"Are you alright, dear?" the angel asks, noticing the scowl that’s formed on Crowley’s face.

"Yeah, m'fine, just not feeling the wine I guess."

Aziraphale's head twitches - a small nod - and he shuffles ever so slightly away from Crowley. Crowley takes a deep breath, wishing for the London smog to cake his insides and calcify around his heart.

They continue their walk back to Soho, Aziraphale finishing off his mince pie along the way. When they make it to the bookshop, the angel hesitates as he reaches for the doorknob, hand repelled like a magnet. He brings his gaze up to Crowley and in the dim light, his eyes are a storm over an ocean.

"Do you… still want to come in?"

Crowley's tongue trips up behind his teeth as he scrambles to say "of course, yes," and he hopes that his sunglasses hide how wide his eyes are so he doesn't seem just completely fucking desperate. Aziraphale seems to loosen in response, some unspoken barrier dissolves, and he opens the door.

Crowley steps across the threshold into the warmth of the bookshop, into the smell of old leather and paper and paraffin wax. There's a cruel voice in his head that wonders if this is all he can ever hope for, experiencing Aziraphale secondhand, picking up scraps of him as he moves through the world.

"Shall we get ourselves a drink?" Aziraphale asks, suddenly at his shoulder. "Make up for the mulled wine?"

"Sure."

"We've got these as well." Aziraphale picks up the box of pastries from where he'd left them.

Oh yes, his sad little gift. He's not even sure why he bothered with it.

"Probably not particularly appetising by now," Crowley says, trying his best to plaster a smirk on his face.

"Nonsense." Aziraphale opens the box and shows him four little fruit tarts looking like they're fresh from the kitchen. "Come along then, I've got a bottle of 10-year Talisker with our names on it."

It only takes a glass or two for Crowley to feel his mood lighten. Before long, he’s sprawled out comfortably in the back room, arm draped across the back of the sofa, sunglasses neatly folded and resting on the coffee table next to the half-eaten fruit tarts.

“Angel, I don’t know why you try this every year, I’m not going bloody caroling with you,” he says, pointing his glass of scotch accusingly at Aziraphale.

“But it’s in the spirit of the season!” he replies, the tip of his nose slightly pink from the alcohol.

“Spirit of the--! I don’t care what time of year it is, I’m not going to traipse around people’s houses harping on about… bleeding choruses of angels and shepherds singing, or whatever.”

“The shepherds weren’t singing, dear.”

“Weren’t they?”

“No, they were watching their flocks by night, you’d know this if we went caroling.”

“Hm, think I’m even less keen now that I know there weren’t any singing shepherds.”

Aziraphale sighs theatrically and rolls his eyes as he takes another sip of his scotch.

“You are a stubborn wretch at times.”

Crowley smiles sardonically, swirling his tumbler about with what he hopes is a debonair sort of flare.

“Oh, you do flatter.”

Aziraphale laughs, but it soon fades and his expression falls. Crowley feels the blood in his veins crystallising to ice. The angel stares intently at his drink for several agonising moments. When he looks up, there's an emotion behind his eyes that feels like a kick in the chest.

"Crowley… was this meant to be a date?"

Crowley blinks once. His brain starts spinning like a hamster wheel, turning over and over trying to think of how to respond but ultimately comes up with nothing.

"Uh," he ends up saying.

“Because I was… rather hoping it was.”

The wheel spins completely off its frame.

“Only… well, I thought, with the trouble you went to, with the reservation, and earlier when you said you wanted to come back here… and then you wanted to walk along the river… I suppose I was just hoping it meant… something.”

The words don’t make sense to Crowley. He understands them as English, can make sense of them insofar as they are strung together in a comprehensible order. But he can’t twist his mind around the ramifications of what Aziraphale is saying.

When he’s met with silence, Aziraphale swallows loudly and continues.

“I know that I once told you that I needed to go slowly, but I had thought that after all the Armageddon business you might… but then you’ve been rather distant recently and - well, I would understand if you - that is to say, I’m wondering if I’ve taken too long."

Crowley still can't fit the words into the right slots in his brain.

"Perhaps I missed my chance.”

And the tone in Aziraphale's voice - that broken vulnerability - is enough to finally kickstart his ability to think.

“No,” Crowley blurts out. “Never.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grow wide, and they're full of a wild, terrified hope.

“In fact, I was… well, I was waiting for _you_. I didn’t want to… rush you.”

Aziraphale smiles, the kind of smile that puts crinkles at the corners of his eyes and makes Crowley's heart come apart at the seams.

“My dear, I fear we’ve been a bit stupid.”

A sound twists out of Crowley’s chest. He can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a sob, and at this point he quite frankly doesn’t care. Aziraphale raises a shaky hand, sets it down on Crowley’s thigh, and the entire rest of the world ceases to exist, having collapsed into that single point of contact. Aziraphale is staring at him, eyes full of all the blue intensity of a tidal wave. Crowley slides his hand from off the back of the sofa, and tentatively cradles it around the angel's soft round cheek. Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter slightly as he lets out a small sigh, and _oh_ that fucking sound ignites every fiber of Crowley’s being.

“Please,” Aziraphale says softly. “Please kiss me.”

Crowley's mind whites out for a moment, breath catching in the back of his throat. Then he leans forward and slowly presses their lips together. It's soft at first, a gentle warmth like sunlight filtering through a lace curtain. But then Aziraphale parts his lips, tongue pushing forward, mouth tasting of scotch and mango from the fruit tart, and Crowley falls apart entirely.

Everything becomes frantic, their drinks suddenly disappeared off to who-knows-where, hands unable to decide where to go - tangled in hair, grabbing at clothes. Crowley finds himself on his back across the sofa with Aziraphale on top of him, somehow softer and warmer than every fantasy he's ever had. He cups his hand around the back of Aziraphale's head to push his tongue deeper into his mouth, and the angel fucking _whimpers_. It sends a bolt of lightning through him and it rips him open, everything in him laid completely bare.

Eventually they pull apart, all shy smiles and breathy laughter, foreheads touching together.

"That was…" Crowley attempts, but most of his brain is still processing the feeling of Aziraphale's tongue in his mouth.

Aziraphale lays a chaste kiss on his lips before he settles his head into the crook of Crowley's neck.

"I rather agree," Aziraphale says breathlessly into Crowley's collarbone.

Crowley snakes his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and they lie together like that until the gentle rise and fall of Aziraphale's breathing lulls Crowley into a drowsy, liquid state. Aziraphale shuffles above him and begins stroking his hair as Crowley, half asleep at this point, all but dissolves into the touch.

"Comfortable, are we?"

"Yep, don't think we're ever leaving this spot."

"Well that's a shame, I had other plans for us."

Crowley opens his eyes, and finds Aziraphale looking down at him fondly (and how long had he dreamt of waking up to that view?), pink lips curled into a sly little smile.

"Angel, I swear to-- _someone_ , if this was all just an elaborate ruse to get me to go caroling…"

Aziraphale leans in and presses their lips together, before trailing a line of kisses down his jaw. He breathes across his ear, turning Crowley's stomach into a giant writhing knot.

"Oh, I'm sure a clever snake like you could probably come up with other ways to make an angel sing, hm?"

Whatever witty rejoinder Crowley had ready withers on his tongue as the heat of Aziraphale's mouth presses against his neck, and he thinks he might just enjoy Christmas this year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please come say hi on Tumblr either on my main blog ([squidsticks](https://squidsticks.tumblr.com/)) or my GO side blog ([heavens-bookshop](https://heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com/)).


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